A/N – a rather long update now…many thanks to my reviewers so far. Though new ones are always welcome of course! ;)

Part Six – the Call to Betrayal

The summer of 3434 faded to a pale dusting of memory, and I faded with it. In those days, the incessant surge of time was so very poignant and intense to me. Each passing hour seemed to corrode my bones, and curdle the blood as it crept through my veins. There was a chasm within me, a yawning gulf that I only very dimly perceived. It had hung huge and heavy in my chest since the day of my mother's death, and I had never stopped running from it, flinching ceaselessly away from my pain, blinding myself to the truth as though my only salvation lay in the promise of oblivion. It was long years before I would come to fully accept the vast and tangled web of emotion within me, still more before I grew to understand it, and extricate myself from the mangled wreckage of fear, rage and loathing in which I had, half-unwittingly, chosen to dwell. It was an inevitable lesson, yet for some reason, I seemed quite intent upon learning it the hard way.

It is no simple thing to articulate. In my youth, an unguessable weight seemed to press down upon me, spurring me ever onwards, further and further away from the ghastly silence that haunted the innermost caverns of my being. Hemmed in from every angle by the strictures of unresolved anguish, I released my turmoil in the only manner I deemed possible. I took refuge in my own fury, clinging fiercely to the hard, arrogant shell I had assembled about myself. Senseless as it seems to me now, I used to feel an urgent need to conceal my sorrow, my powerlessness – my awful vulnerability – from the prying eyes of the world. I truly believed that if I let down my guard for even a minute, my anguish would seep helplessly through the confines of my skull, and spill forth for all to see. In truth, my disguise scarcely sufficed to deceive those who truly knew me. I exasperated my kin, yet I believe they identified my tailored mask of aggression and enforced bravado for the desperate façade it was. For the most part, therefore, they endured my abysmal behaviour with a tireless patience that really ought to have left me thoroughly ashamed. Unfortunately, my attention was firmly rooted elsewhere.

I continued to visit my aunt Tamiel whenever the opportunity arose. I confess that my reasons were only partly legitimate – while I had developed a genuine affection for Tamiel, it was the prospect of seeing Avlareth that kept me returning to the house with such regularity. To my ongoing disappointment, however, she was never anything but her cool and reticent self in my presence. It is peculiar that in the face of such apparent adversity I did not abandon my scheme to break the bond between her and my brother. I had no plan or strategy in mind, and yet I knew, with a strange and inexplicable conviction, that I would succeed. What I neglected to consider was that my success would bring me more shame and heartache than the searing touch of envy had ever caused.

I gave no thought to the future, and my soul seemed to freeze within me whenever I considered the past. I had no option but to devote myself to the swift and ephemeral pulse of the moment. I was like a bolt of white energy, self-propelled and self-consuming. I have never been blessed with the careful, dispassionate serenity of nature afforded to many of my kind – I could not bear the long, slow ache of sorrow with grace and solemnity, as some can. I do not seek to absolve myself of responsibility for my actions, merely to explain what lay behind them. I was at fault, undeniably, though I was strangely blind to it at the time. The years passed, and drew me no closer to grasping the truth of my situation.

The host of Greenwood, led by the new King Thranduil, returned from war in the late autumn of the year 3441. It was a glad time, and the festivities lasted for several weeks (even I managed to put my habitual misery to one side for a time). However, as the euphoric haze of the revelry began to fade, no one could deny the subtle trace of sorrow hanging silently in its wake. It took some time to adjust to the new strangeness of Thranduil's reign. Our kingdom had never before been touched by war, and the absence of those lost on the marches of Mordor was keenly felt, thankful though we were to see the faces of those who had returned. Nothing was quite the same as before. It was nothing so visceral as anguish that we felt, yet a faint poignancy seemed to vein the world – the subtle scent of decline, which we all must eventually learn to endure. The sun seemed to shine out a little dimmer upon this new and fallen world, and there was a trace of grief in my father's eyes that no time would ever assuage.

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A chill and lucid breeze threaded its wistful way across the woodland realm, filtering off into the deep amnesia of the grey-hazed horizon. The voice of impending winter muttered coldly upon the air, wandering sadly between the trees and drifting up into the cloud-writhen gulf of the sky.

Legolas sat slumped by his window, somnolent and half-senseless. The previous night he had indulged in a session of ridiculously heavy drinking with his friends, and was now feeling a little off-colour. Balthar had returned from the war, unscathed and seemingly unchanged by his experiences over the past years, though his time on the marches of Mordor could hardly have been pleasant. They had stayed up far into the night, imbibing cask after cask of ale and laughing and jesting, as they had not done in years. Legolas had forgotten quite how much of a haven his friends could provide from the bleak, uncomfortable business of life, though he was suffering now for his night of blind intoxication. There came a sudden tap at his chamber door, and he groaned under his breath. "Enter," he said drearily.

The door swung open, and a small Elven maid hovered tentatively across the threshold of his doorway. It was Glórien, the serving girl, considering him with her large, fretful green eyes. "I bring word from the King," she said nervously, with a slightly belated curtsey. "You are required in your father's study at once. Follow me, if it pleases you, my Prince."

Legolas rolled his eyes, and let out a deep sigh. "It does not please me," he muttered, resting his head in his hands.

"The King instructed me to ensure that you obeyed his wishes, Sir," she said quietly, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Legolas' brow furrowed slightly, and he gave Glórien a pointed look. He doubted greatly whether this small, timid girl was capable of forcing him bodily to his father's study. She didn't even seem brave enough to meet his gaze. In any case, he had no real intention of disobeying his father's command – he merely intended to complain about it. "I am on my way," he answered brusquely, turning his face once again to the breath-misted window. "Please leave."

"With all due respect my Prince, you are assuredly not on your way," she insisted politely, her gold hair falling across her face. "Your father was explicitly clear on this matter. I am to escort you to his study at once."

Legolas surged to his feet, rather more bemused than annoyed, and strode past her rather airily. She scuttled after him, seemingly to maintain the vague pretence of escorting him to Thranduil's quarters. When Legolas reached his father's study he thrust the door open without knocking, leaving Glórien lingering awkwardly in the corridor behind him.

Thranduil sat at his desk, cool and straight-backed, with his hands folded neatly in front of him. Tirion was also present, standing rigidly before his father's desk. He turned with a jolt as Legolas entered the room, surveying his brother a little icily with his slate-grey eyes. Galdír sat quietly on Thranduil's left side, also eyeing Legolas somewhat sourly. The taut, wintry silence put the young Prince immediately on his guard. He wondered gloomily whether he was about to receive some kind of punishment – he did not recall having done anything to deserve it, but it was difficult to be certain.

"It is a matter of great importance I would discuss with you both, my sons," the King said gravely, his gaze passing from one brother to the other. "It has come to my attention that in my absence, a certain – contention – has grown between you."

"It was through no fault of mine, father," Tirion interjected quietly.

"He speaks the truth, Sire," Galdír confirmed coldly. "It is the young Prince Legolas who has instigated the greater part of the conflict…"

"Silence!" Thranduil rapped sharply. "I care nothing for what has gone before. I wish only to put an end to this idiocy."

"If I might object, Sire," Tirion protested, casting his brother a sullen glance. "I have attempted on numerous occasions to heal whatever division has arisen between us, and my young brother has blankly refused to comply."

"You shall both comply to my wishes now," Thranduil snapped. "I entreat you both to forget whatever has passed between you, and make amends at once. You frankly have no choice in the matter, for I will not have my sons skirmishing like common ruffians! From what I hear, the rift between you has been quite the talk of the kingdom these past years, and I am thoroughly ashamed of you both for tarnishing the dignity of our family name in such a way."

"I apologise, Sire," Tirion said humbly, after a long and stilted pause.

Legolas lowered his eyes and tried – rather half-heartedly – to look contrite for his father's benefit.

"Very well. I wish to hear no more of this foolish matter from either one of you," Thranduil continued, his eyes chill and sharp as flint. "Is that clear?"

Legolas and Tirion both nodded, without casting so much as a glance at one another.

"And now, if you others will excuse us, I wish to speak with Legolas in private," Thranduil requested icily.

Tirion complied at once, seemingly eager to escape. He bowed low to Thranduil, inclined his head nominally to his brother, and strode silently from the room with his arms fixed to his sides, and his white-knuckled fists clenched. Galdír departed reluctantly, flinging an acidic glance at Legolas as he marched past him. Legolas raised his eyes hesitantly to meet his father's. Thranduil did not look as furious as he had feared; yet an indecipherable expression seemed to drift across the King's unyielding features. The young Prince could not help but feel slightly nervous. His father never failed to inject a sense of awkward restraint into situations like this. The air seemed to thrum with a complex kind of tension, underpinned by the faint threat of anger. "I have received much information, pertaining to the manner in which you have conducted yourself over these past years," Thranduil began quietly. "Among other things, I am informed that you have been attempting to usurp your brother's position of authority."

Legolas' eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Thranduil raised a stiff hand to silence him.

"Do not fear," the King continued inflectionlessly. "I know a blatant falsehood when I hear it. Even Galdír – who, as I am sure you are quite aware, holds you not in the highest regard – has dismissed these particular rumours as the empty fallacies they are. I wish you to know, my son, that I am ready to overlook these foolish reports. However, I might also add that rumours of your insolence, aggression, and general insubordination have been frankly ubiquitous. Do you deny that in my absence, you have wantonly disobeyed your brother's instructions, and spurned his every attempt to reason with you?"

Legolas' gaze sank to the floor. He could devise no reply that would be both credible, and satisfactory to his father's demands.

"Very well," Thranduil resumed after a brief pause. "I do not understand the particulars of the matter, yet I doubt they are of any great import. Consider this day a fresh beginning – an opportunity to leave this childish folly behind you, once and for all. You are set to Come of Age in little over a year, and your more juvenile tendencies, which up until now have obviously been indulged to an unacceptable degree, will no longer be tolerated with such leniency. I shall reproach you no further on the subject, yet if you continue to behave in such a shameful and inappropriate fashion, I shall be most greatly displeased. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sire," he answered carefully. "Of course."

As usual, Legolas allowed his father's tedious lecture to wash effortlessly over him, leaving very little impression or residue of meaning in its wake. Such was his yearning to escape this tiresome conversation that he was willing to speak whatever empty words Thranduil wished to hear in order to appease him. He wished only to return to his chamber, and sleep off the dreary after-effects of all the ale he had consumed the previous night. The King fixed his son with an intense stare, while Legolas gazed sullenly at the open window, and the grey-painted heavens beyond. A knotted swathe of thunderheads muffled the wide, wet sky, slowly darkening with the omen of unshed rain.

"There is one further matter I would discuss with you," Thranduil announced, a curious severity creeping into his voice. "It has come to my attention that you have been paying visits to one Lady Tamiel, the wife of the deceased Lord Airendîr."

"Lord Airendîr is dead?" Legolas blurted out, his eyes wide with shock.

"Aye, he fell during the Siege of Barad-dûr," the King answered darkly. "Yet that is no concern of yours whatsoever. Legolas, I forbid you from ever visiting that woman again."

"Why?" Legolas demanded loudly, more out of surprise than fury.

"Do not raise your voice to me, Legolas."

"You owe me an explanation at the very least," Legolas exclaimed incredulously. "You have no right–"

"I have every right!" Thranduil bellowed, thrusting back his chair and drawing himself angrily to his feet. "I am your father, and in this matter I shall brook no disobedience! You are not to see her ever again, and that is my final word. Now be gone!"

Legolas stood frozen and senseless for a moment, staring mutely at his father. He could not recall ever having seen Thranduil so enraged, particularly without he himself having done something to warrant or provoke it. Neither was the King generally prone to such volatile and seemingly irrational outbursts.

"Be gone!" Thranduil growled again, his face reddening.

Legolas turned and strode wordlessly from his father's study, caught somewhere between disbelieving rage and supreme confusion. He paused in the hallway as the door clicked closed behind him, trying to make sense of what had just transpired. He jolted with shock as something moved in his peripheral vision, turning and beholding his sister, Lilithen, lurking against the wall to the left of the stone lintel. He almost exclaimed aloud as Lilithen seized him by the sleeve and hauled him firmly along the dark gloomy corridor. She relinquished her grip as they gained a safe distance from their father's study, and peered around them beadily to check they were alone.

"Aren't you a little old and respectable for such clandestine tricks? I thought you had long outgrown your perverse love of eavesdropping." Legolas commented, arching an eyebrow at his rather dastardly sister.

"Hardly," she replied, grinning. "I've simply grown rather better at it! I gain most of my pleasure from snooping, these days. There's precious little else to occupy myself with in this place."

"A curious mind, you have," Legolas responded, mystified. "I expect you witnessed the whole encounter, then."

"The conclusion only," she replied. "You possess a true talent for infuriating our good father, do you not?"

"I've done little enough to warrant his rage!"

"Now there's a lie," Lilithen scoffed. "Forging a friendship with Lady Tamiel was scarcely going to please him."

"Why?" Legolas demanded agitatedly. "I know our father has never been on intimate terms with our mother's kin, but I have not heard that the strife between them was so very awful. He maintains contact with our mother's parents, after all – a message arrived from Lord Mithen only last week! Why should Tamiel be any different?"

"You utter dunce, Legolas!" Lilithen exclaimed. "They were once on extremely intimate terms! Our father was betrothed to Lady Tamiel, before he knew our mother."

Legolas opened his mouth to reply, but his mind fell suddenly blank. He turned away from his sister, and drew a deep breath. His heart seemed suddenly to beat very fast, reverberating madly within the walls of his skull.

"How did you hear of this?" he murmured strickenly.

"I hear many things in the course of a day's lurking," she jested, with a sad sort of smile.

"The whole kingdom must know of it," Legolas remarked after a moment's consideration. "All royal betrothals are made public."

"Oh, it's universally known," Lilithen agreed quietly. "Of course, no one ever discusses the matter openly in our presence. I've overheard the servants gossiping about it rather a lot though."

"Why was the engagement broken?" Legolas asked hurriedly, his mind roving in jagged leaps, attempting desperately to fathom this new, absurd information.

"No one seems to know," she shrugged. "It's a source of great mystery apparently, which, I suppose, is why it remains a chief topic of conversation. It was quite the intrigue, as I'm sure you can imagine." Lilithen sighed heavily, as though suddenly drained of all her usual exuberance. She cast her brother a sideways glance. "Are you going to obey our father's command, and stay away from her?"

"I – I don't know."

"He will be furious if you go against him on this," she said, her voice suddenly sharp. "And we'll all suffer for it, most likely. I do wish that for the first time in all your life, Legolas, you would simply do as you are told." With that, she turned and strode off along the corridor. Legolas stood mute and frozen, rooted to the spot long minutes after his sister's footfalls had sifted off into silence.